


The Consolation Prize

by ScarlettsLetters



Series: Little Red Book [3]
Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Bondage, Boys in Chains, Captain America Steve Rogers/Modern Bucky Barnes, Choking, Cock Worship, Cuffs, Dom Bucky Barnes, Dom/sub, Dream Sex, Dubious Consent Due To Identity Issues, Forced Orgasm, HYDRA Trash Party, M/M, Mutual Non-Con, Nightmares, Oral Sex, Rough Oral Sex, Shibari, Sub Steve Rogers, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes, non-con elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-16
Updated: 2018-04-16
Packaged: 2019-04-23 21:11:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14340993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScarlettsLetters/pseuds/ScarlettsLetters
Summary: Steve dreams of that last dance with Peggy...He risks the Winter Soldier claiming his body and soul.Steve awakens with the intent of subduing Bucky.He submits to the Asset once and for all.





	The Consolation Prize

**Author's Note:**

> Please read the notes and tags. Heavily dubious consent shifts between Steve suffering the nasty aftereffects of a nightmare and Bucky reverting to the Winter Soldier persona. HYDRA trash party applies in the sense Steve's underlying torment and Bucky's rough response originate from a definite period of HYDRA "use" alluded to here, featuring in future stories. 
> 
> \-------
> 
> Your pain is the breaking of the shell that encloses your understanding.  
> \-- Khalil Gibrain

“That's it. Deeper.”

The voice brooked no argument. Softness disguised none of the ice and iron hammered into four syllables. They drove deep into his skull, sending a slow, uncoiling weight plunging through his core.

The knight expected obedience and his patience would not last forever. No imploring look or protesting cry steered his course away from the inevitable. Every second that ticked away through the hourglass risked a higher likelihood of punishment, and the odds were already not in Steve's favour. 

He sucked softly and pulled back an inch, perhaps half again as long. Enough that he might take in a heady breath, though oxygen starved lungs left him lightheaded and unstable on his knees. The firm grip at the back of his head pushed him onto the offered hardness, and his lips skidded down the firm length.

So much. He already took as much as he could into the hot, molten confines of his mouth. Muscles at the back of his throat clenched when the knight bottomed out. No time given to adjust, he spluttered and gagged, giving a special brand of illicit pleasure to his lover.

Looming over him, the knight stood resolute and unmoving except to pull Steve onto his cock, again and again. Around the weak coughs of protest, Steve found a slow rhythm of swallowing and tasting the salted heat. Stars danced in front of his eyes. He needed air.

Pressure let up a little when he bobbed his head fairly deep, and the firm metallic gauntlet shifted from maintaining the rhythm to curling in his short hair. Fingers splayed along his neck startled him with their coolness, his fevered skin throwing off waves of heat.

Steve fell into the rhythm of sucking and swallowing until time dissipated into rocking on his knees. Eternity hung suspended on the thickness weighing on his tongue, the insistent thrusts that drove the weight deep.

“Good. Suck, soldier…”  

 

* * *

 

“It’s not too late for that dance you owe me.”

Warm honey to the ears, her English accent painted a brushstroke over a foggy canvas. Distraction scattered his thoughts in all directions on frantic wings, flapping for sanctuary elsewhere.

Steve turned to the source of that cultivated alto voice, a thrill running down his spine. The blur of men in their crisp navy or evergreen uniforms and girls in swing skirts smeared against the periphery of his vision.

Laughter and the vigorous uptempo band filled the dance hall to the roof, past the tricolour bunting trimming the walls in a last gasp of cheerful patriotism. Drums pounded in a hectic rhythm that matched his galloping heartbeat, that flutter only she awoke besieging his belly.

Her. She rose from the clustered dancers shimmying and twirling on the polished floor, the lone still figure backlit by the faintest spotlight. A halo graced the dark chestnut curls, turning the trim Englishwoman into a modern icon of the Madonna.

Poised and confident, Steve briefly felt like a shabby kid from Brooklyn stuffing newspapers into his worn shoes and dressed in a shabby hand-me-down suit two sizes too big instead of his army greens sporting his name proudly on the pocket.

“Peggy,” Steve found his voice after swallowing.

She extended her hand to him. Such strength in those graceful fingers barren of rings, nails polished a rich candy apple red for the occasion.

Glossy red as a star.

He reached out to take her slim fingers in his much larger hand, ever careful not to crush Peggy's delicate skin, a shock of pleasure racing through his body. The pleasure settled deep in his core, anchored by the thrumming chord of subtle pain that added such a dimension.

He longed to touch her. Peggy smiled when he raised her hand to his mouth and brushed his mouth over her knuckles in a courtly kiss. Candy apple fingers curled into his palm. Scarlet lips curved.

“On your knees, Steve.”

He glanced up at her imperious face.

The first bolt of agony arose out of the blue, a weal rising over his back.

 

* * *

 

Electricity shot through his palm. The current roared up his arm, seizing the biceps and triceps into stony hardness involuntarily. He heard his choked gasp escape in a rush of anguish.

So beautiful and impossibly strong, her grip pressed down on his knuckles until the skin bleached. His elbow locked when he tried to withdraw his hand from hers, but the strength of the kinetic bolt searing his nervous system to smoke blocked the messages. He held fast in spite of himself, vibrating as each second stretched out like saltwater taffy.

“Kneel.”

_Why? Sweetheart, why are you doing this?_

Unable to cry out, his seized vocal chords managed no more than a high, animalistic keen. Voltage poured into him and with the fading remnants of conscious thought, he struggled to call to her. His jaw tightened.

“Pe… P-Pe _…”_

Tears streamed hot down his cheeks. Stinging eyes tried and failed to focus on her face through the watery blur. Dark hair haloed the bleak oval of her face, a featureless in his vision from the awful force chattering his teeth. Steve couldn’t concentrate past sucking in a pained gasp.

“Naughty,” Peggy said. “You will obey me.”

The punch of plasmic heat roared in a column along every brachiating vein of his rictus stiff limbs, seeking the path of least resistance. Discovering an escape through his feet, lightning smashed into the floor. The glossy boards of the dance hall smoked, the room filling up with an acrid haze.

She wordlessly drove him down to his knees, forcing him to buckle in on himself in a futile effort to stop the waves of pain from engulfing him. His shoulders trembled, and he knelt, stiff and unmoving, before the pitiless light of interrogation turned on him. His arm hung numb and immobilized at his side when Peggy dropped his hand.

“Good. Now your lesson begins,” she said. “You must learn pain is your teacher. Every hurt gives a lesson.”

Strong fingers closed around his throat. Her dainty palm crushed his trachea and Steve opened his mouth to cry out to her. _I'm not your enemy! Peggy, stop. Please, stop!_

Some part of his mind still functioning on logic knew it couldn't be her. His Peggy Carter, though perfectly capable of defending herself, never turned a cruel word or a harsh gesture against an ally. Not like this.

“Focus. You must learn to accept and welcome the pain. Then you will understand..”

She slapped him casually across the cheekbone. He rocked with the aching sting, unable to raise his palm to rub away the worst of it.

“Pain teaches you to move swiftly and decisively. The body acts before the mind.”

He didn't know where she found a riding crop, but she wielded the thin red leather object decisively. Even before the end tapped his chest, he flinched away.

Peggy nodded. “See? Your body avoids the source of the hurt. Soon, though, you will crave the touch. Every correction of pain brings the pleasure of acting properly in the first place.”

“Why?” he gasped out.

“Because you will yield. That is your place, Rogers. On your knees, yielding to the will of the Motherland.”

Pain engulfed him in waves, a kind of agony he never knew. Not in Azzano and not facing down a litany of terrible enemies: not the footage of Helmut Zemo chanting the command words to send Bucky in a rage in a darkened pod while he stood by helpless. Nor Tony turning away in an office with the unsigned accords between them, Roosevelt's ink pens forgotten on the table.

The crop landed in a parallel blow over his shoulder blades. Another swept a sharp, hard sting lower by a few inches. Down, and down again.

He lost all sense of time.

 

* * *

 

Blood stung his inner cheek after another strike broke the skin. Steve's back burned, a mass of weals laid down by the precise collisions of a crop. Not a case, not a whip. Peggy's hand still collared his throat.

Still his knees refused to summon up any jellied strength as he tried to back away. Spots danced in front to his eyes, the pressure building on his neck. A lack of oxygen or blood flow was certain to make him pass out, and Steve tried to summon up one last surge of flagging energy to throw off the brunette cropping his back.

“Peg,” he gurgled around the narrowing grip that pressed hard on his windpipe. He listlessly seized her delicate wrist, and stared up at her, so far away.

Cold, frost blue eyes bored back into him.

Not a delicate wrist. Not a woman in her pretty wiggle dress or her army standard uniform, SSR regulation. A man with haunted eyes and two days’ growth shading his strong jaw, a dark seraph descended from Heaven to deliver punishment on mortal souls.

He swallowed against the constricting grip. Under that pitiless gaze, Steve faded out from his body into some corner of his mind he couldn't recognize. Subspace, though it had no name for him.

“This is what you wanted. Accept your punishment. Obey.” Words fell around him in a drill sergeant's cadence, barked in short, passionless orders. A man's voice, and the gloved hand swung back to slap him across the cheek again.

Metal arm dominating his vision a bleak girder of solid steel and vibranium never let him fall, for all that cold, harsh light in the man's face aligned just long enough for Steve's oxygen starved brain to identify the error.

It wasn't Peggy. Peggy lay buried in her polished casket. Peggy, gone away in her sleep, left that young, idealistic soldier in her dusty memories after he slid under the ice.

He was pulled forward and landed against the obscene hardness tenting the front of the man's pants. A breath gave him the overwhelming scent, masculine leather and metal oil and sandalwood, and his eyes streamed.

His choice was clear enough. He shook his head. Not like this. Not here.

_Peggy. Peg… I'm sorry, I'm not strong enough. I'm sorry._

The Winter Soldier squeezed his throat harder, and he went under the dark obsidian waves, thrashing out for the last sparks of the light, screaming Bucky's name.

* * *

_Now_...

Bound, shouting, he arose from the darkness of the unconscious void. He no longer dreams. Steve could not move his left arm more than an inch or two. Thrashing at his bonds barely improved his situation, only tightening the restrictions around his flexed, tight legs. Indistinct shapes floated in front of him while his eyes tried to focus in the unlit environment. Impossible for him to distinguish whether he looked at furniture or bars or fallen bodies.

His assessment knocked over dominos in a rapidly deteriorating situation. Bound in the dark, no immediate exit lines, and he wasn't alone, given the rough breathing nearby.

After seconds of uncoordinated flailing, he forced his right arm higher, trying to pull it free from twisted fabric. Cloth wrapped around him, hot and damp, stinking thickly of sweat and fear. The sheet tugged tighter while he managed to haul his hand out. He tried to sit up, muscles heaving at the effort, and made a few inches of progress into the blessed air before forcibly shoved to lie back.

His missing assailant, then. Someone as strong as a silverback gorilla forced him onto the bed. Steve twisted to remove the unyielding pressure from his shoulder, bones grinding in a painful synchronized rhythm under the skin. Short hacking strikes of his wrist resonated off the hard, immovable substance. He tried a different approach, sweeping up inside the rod's guard and gripping, pushing out, forcing it to bend.

“Stop! Steve, stop already!”

The man's cry barely penetrated his fugue.  

His foot connected with something solid, a dull grunt abnormally loud in his ears. While he kicked, he tucked his knees up as much as the restraints allowed, intending to lash out with a double footed kick. The solidity of the misshapen rod gave way under him, and a heavy body landed atop his.

They tangled together, fighting for precedence and position, but the winding sheets and blankets presented a decided disadvantage for the blond. He snarled, hoarse voice cracking in his abraded throat, and arched against the weight on him.

Whatever -- whomever -- he was, his assailant grabbed him with arms and legs both, hauling him into a wrestling pin. He refused to give way that easily, kicking again and dragging off the choke hold locked around his neck. A blur of rage engulfed him. _I gotta get away. Get away. Recoup. Find Peggy._

Steve sucked in his breath and plowed a knee into the bed, hoisting the heavy weight of his attacker up over the arch of his spine. Had to be some kind of Soviet or German strongman they sent after him, especially when he managed to grab the fellow's thick, defined bicep in his grip. In a blur of motion, the house of cards went down faster than he could follow: he threw, and forced himself into a roll, taking them both off the bed. Anyone should've been stunned momentarily by the shoulder drop.

They landed in a thud, the grunt beside him far from satisfying. He managed to get two steps away before those beefy arms wrapped around his legs, hauling him down. They went down together and a black, smoky cocoon engulfed his head, robbing him of sight and breath.

“Snap out of it!” A desperate plea rolled over him from beyond the muffling cloth.

“Peggy, _no!_ ”

The sheet smelled heavily of musk and sour terror. Steve cried out in spite of himself, tasting iron on his tongue. Animalistic outrage filled the cloying, suffocating room. A punch flung with relative precision connected; his fist sank into flesh and stopped at metal, not bone. Servos hummed and his momentum completely halted.

Steve faltered for a moment. That moment was enough. Crawling blue light briefly exploded along thin channels chased in an exotic pattern, almost elemental, from something his assailant must have carried or wore. He didn't know. A transparent charge blew outwards from the gaps in a hemispherical wave throwing him airborne.

The sheet billowed into the air and he managed to tuck his hands over the back of his head as the force flung him into the wall. Breath punched out from Steve's lungs. A crack where his knuckles connected with drywall sent a stream of dust falling into his face and coating his shoulder. Something slew off a shelf, practically crunching onto the floor next to him.

He slumped senseless against the floor. Footsteps drummed the regular gait of a military march.

* * *

 

Light bloomed as the dark-haired man closed on Steve, his expression cool as water. Two hard slaps finally found the switch, the one functioning reading light sparking to life on the bloodied, sweaty wreck of the supersoldier.

“Fucking hell. Steve, what've you done now…” Bucky tried to ease away the sheet, checking Steve's fixed pupils. Dust smeared his wheat-blond hair.

Bucky's hesitation galvanized into a reactive block as Steve lurched to life again and threw his fist right at his gut.

“Get out,” Steve croaked, kipping up into a defensive crouch.

Bucky’s vibranium arm intercepted the first punch and the second aimed at his face. Steve poured his full strength to break out right into the the black and gold lamellar. Woven mesh and solid plates absorbed the kinetic force with a faint glow. Earth's rarest metals, saving the day again.

“Shit. Stevie, stop!” A harsher emphasis cut through his cry. “Don't you recognize me?”

“Where's Peggy?” Steve snarled.

Pale, frost-blue eyes narrowed. Bucky reached out again, tentative. “Steve…”

In the weak light radiating from his arm -- his damn arm, wasn't that a trick -- the blond soldier took in the scars, the bare chest, and the dark pants. Memory filled in the holes. The dark-haired thug took Peggy. He _knew_ his assailant in the bedroom even if he could not give name to his torturer. Without hesitation, he tackled Bucky.

For a second time they dropped to the floor, scattering clothes and furniture in their roll. He didn't intend to make the same mistake twice, avoiding that prosthetic arm. Whatever the panels did, they gave sufficient armour for Steve to drive his knee up and punch his half-naked opponent in the soft spots -- throat, side, belly -- rather than that.

A fatal mistake. He connected somewhere yielding, fist sliding in while Bucky moved to the side, rolling with the momentum, and swiveled to lock his legs around Steve's head. Powerful thigh muscles banded his skull and crossed calves drew him forward. Heels hammered into his back, and he struggled for a breath, pressure hard on his windpipe.

An ozone tang struck the air, and Bucky slammed his hand into Steve's chest. Electricity erupted from the sensors built into the fingers, and the blond collapsed under the tasers.

“<Down>.” Russian boomed over the hoarse crackle.

Steve shook and trembled, then went still. The Winter Soldier knelt and checked his vitals -- jugular for a heartbeat, wrist for the same, breathing measured in time. Then he lifted the unconscious body over his shoulder.

 

* * *

 

Sleep escorted him out of the bedroom, that much was clear. Steve came to a dimly lit room he instantly recognized. His eyes widened.

He rarely spent much time in the smallest bedroom in the walk-up townhouse. It barely deserved the title, blank of niceties hinting at regular occupation. His position kneeling on the cool laminate floorboards gave him a fine view of the bed, a fixture covered in white sheets and black touches. White, the better to reveal the stains.

He ached, slowly gathering himself. Cuffs secured his wrists, the solid chain hooked to a bolt. His arms stretched over his head. Additional measures deployed kept him kneeling, rope tied above and below his elbows and several bands wrapped around his folded legs.

The guidewire looped through a D-ring on his cuffs forced his wrists to curve back behind his head, tied off in an eye bolt on the floor. Close to three dozen bolts decorated the room in key locations, the floor and corners of the wall, another over the door. He placed each one himself.

Once upon a time, for fantasies of taming his own black-knight. The same knight moved behind him somewhere, close enough for the soft creak of the cabinet door shutting to sound uncommonly loud.

Running his hand down Steve's face, Bucky traced over shallow bruises formed during the fight. Nothing that wouldn't fade in a few hours at best.

Indifference in the caress caused Steve to turn his head away, gaze downturned. The brief glimpse he held of Bucky left his heart racing, caught in his throat. He was nearly naked. Only a pair of cotton shorts clung to his well-developed thighs, waistband drawn low over his sloping hips.

And still so very hard, prominent length outlined by the clinging dark cotton. Under any other circumstances, Steve wanted to respond. Bucky so rarely initiated in rougher lovemaking. The whole purpose of the room was encouraging him as a confident Dom.

A cold irony. Steve tried to hold still but the metal chain clanked overhead, links betraying the faintest sway.

Bucky wheeled, pale blue-grey eyes hooded. In the space of three seconds, Steve knew. He hung his head a few degrees, fighting to breathe normally. Panic drew crows-feet at the corners of his eyes, flattening his lips into a bleached line.

“Ready, soldier.” Bucky spoke flatly, desensitized to the fear and the unease.

Silence meant disobedience. Hesitation meant correction. Steve drew in a breath through his nose, his lungs filling with the sweat and scent of leather. He drew no comfort out of the unfamiliar haze. They never spent enough time in the bedroom for him to find the means to relax.

Leather slapped against the walls on his back, wide and broad. The flogger carried enough casual force to light the mending red lines.

“Sir.” He managed a rasp.

“Present.”

Again in Russian. Steve lifted his head. The ropes kept him from moving much. He pushed his knees a little apart, acutely aware of the vulnerable spread of his thighs. The t-shirt and shorts he wore to bed were gone, stripped off. Nakedness bothered him less than what Bucky might do with it.

No. The Winter Soldier. No trace of Bucky anywhere in there.

Still tense and ready for a fight, Steve’s nostrils flared. He blew out a shuddering, long breath. The rude awakening banished any dregs of sleep, the last hopes he might be dreaming again. His shoulders sloped close to his ears, l pinched up a protective angle.

Bucky swung the flogger at the pronounced, bunched muscles. A cascade of blows layered over one another. Steve flinched and caught his breath, biting back the need to cry out. He wouldn't. _Not to the Winter Soldier._

Their dance lasted far too long, until his pale skin burned a hot shade of pink and his cheeks flushed an even brighter rose red. Pain stood at his shoulder, goading him to cry out, and his bruised lips bore the imprint of teeth clamping down hard enough to break the skin rather than make a sound. He wrenched his eyes shut when he didn't stare at the bare feet circling around the wood floor.

“Present.”

Another tocsin of Russian to measure his failures. Steve growled and wept.

Hurting him. Striking him down. Unmasking him bit by bit.

He failed to grasp this shift in Bucky's mood save only he held some hand in the act, a burst of violence in the tangled shadows of his sleep. Negotiating with the Winter Soldier was pointless. Arnim Zola and his band of depraved scientists engineered the Asset to never express feeling or stay his hand on the niggling sensation somewhere in that broken soul.

“Present.”

He didn't know what the soldier wanted. Thrust his chest out, arched his back, and no luck.

The next blow stung infinitely worse, cutting diagonally across the lines painted along his spine in parallel rows. Thin and stiff, the cane struck through the welts in a way the crop never had. Steve screamed behind his teeth then, jaw gritted, eyes shut and body shuddering on the way.

“Present.”

A first time for him ever suffering the cane. He hated it. Tears flowed freely under his lashes but never the sound coming from his lips. The whole world vanished into a smoky blaze between his shoulder blades and the maniacal, reckless tapping interspersed by a sudden twang of dark release. The chain jangled. He hung by his arms, slack, and the Winter Soldier waited for the next opportunity.

Oblivion escaped him as it always would. Only the worst damage knocked him down. _Damn you, Erskine. Damn you for doing this to me._

He swore at everyone but God. The sharp smack parallel to his bared feet brought a new tincture of despair, his eyes huge and wide and wet in their liquid azure torment.  
  
The Winter Soldier's voice rang hollow and cold above him. “Obey. Present.”

* * *

 

Every inch of his back burned. His front carried the weals from the crop, which lay broken on a table somewhere nearby. Bucky sat at the edge of the white bed, his knees parted, arms crossed over his knees. A healthy glow of perspiration coated his skin, ominously copper compared to the dark finish of his matte charcoal and gold arm.

Black that drank the light.

Dusky pupils that held their private thoughts and the sum of the beaten soldier's fears. He dared not look too long.

But once Steve raised his head, he found himself reflected in the dispassionate immensity of the Winter Soldier's presence.

The metallic thumb ran down his split lip, parallel to the cut oozing only the slightest blood. That would mend efficiently, as the deepest and lowest hurts already faded away in time for the Soldier to lavish new ones on him.

“Obey,” he whispered.

Shame and humiliation left him nothing else left to lose. No shining image of Peggy in that dance. No hint of Bucky laughing in bed.

The Winter Soldier fixed him with a long stare and punishment followed his brazen regard, a casual backhanded slap that threw Steve off-balance. The chain and his roped arms shuddered at the strain when he swung helpless from numb shoulders.

Rising from the bed, Bucky stripped down his briefs, revealing his dripping length. The dark crown pointed straight at Steve, who hung from his wrists and raised his haggard gaze at the very object of his lust. His fear.

He slowly opened his mouth. Shuddering breaths leaked out from him. The intimidating weight swayed slightly when the Winter Soldier covered the short distance.  
  
“Obey,” he whispered again, his Russian mangled and predating the compliance. “I want you.”

Not like this. But to have Bucky back...

The Winter Soldier grabbed him and stabilized his head. He cried out where his shoulder sockets burned from the chain and the rope. As his mouth opened, Bucky thrust his cock deep into his mouth. No preamble, no tease: only the rapid claiming and taking.

An attack without intimacy, he plunged deep enough to choke Steve. Rapid, swift thrusts proved beneficial only to distract him from the ache burning in his joints, refocusing him on the deep throat fucking that emerged after several readjustments of the angle of attack.

"Suck, soldier..."

Deep. So deep. Steve had never taken Bucky fully in his mouth. He dreamt about the flourishing exploration and development of his deep-throating abilities. Or oral sex, for that matter. But not like this.

Even so, embroiled in shame and horror, his cock stirred to hardness to challenge his opinions about the event. Tears ran down his face still, dappling his cheekbone and striking the ground. The Winter Soldier wiped them away with his thumb under the corner of Steve's eye.

They settled into a blazing rhythm that forced Steve to adopt a faster rate of sipping in a breath and sucking until that oxygen gave out. His existence unraveled into the fat tip sliding over his tongue and bursting past the weakened muscles of his throat.

Suck. Swallow. Breathe. Suck. Swallow. Breathe.

Life was no more, no less. The Asset fucked him like a machine, rather than a person. Using Steve as a cock sleeve, nothing much more than that. He tried to make Bucky come faster with the limited means -- no avail. Changes catalyzed by his efforts to wrap his lips tighter and use his tongue were few. He swallowed hard enough that profane symphony of his submission filled his ears and the chamber, christening it lewdly.

Bucky didn't alter pace, hard and deep in his relentless plundering of the submissive mouth wrapped around him.

He didn't care how hard Steve sucked. He didn't care if Steve choked or complied by pulling silken flesh along his cock.

He didn't care. Steve served. Steve obeyed, and the pain mostly stopped.

Drool ran down Steve's chin as the steady assault on his throat wore on, and he found, to his amazement, he could suck down nearly all that was offered to him without fully coughing. His jaw ached and his lips burned where the rough tempo enflamed the cut, but he kept pace.

Bucky tightened his fingers in Steve's hair and gripped him tight as the last ragged strokes slammed into his mouth. He could go no deeper, and the hot wealth of his cream poured straight into Steve's belly.

For the first time, he cried out in disappointment. Loss. Despair.

Those frozen pale eyes descended from being lost in the middleground, gaining focus. “Don't worry, American. There is more.”

With casual ease, he pulled back almost to the tip. Watched how the curved bed of Steve's tongue followed him, extended for that last touch.

“That's it.”  He thrust his full length in again to Steve's mouth, past quivering cheeks, burying himself to the full depth again.

Steve pursed his lips to try to get any of the flavour as a consolation prize. Shame and the burning heat of his predicament melted together, a goad to keep him focused. If he sucked, he received his reward.

He sucked harder. Time to begin again, to learn, and to succeed.

 

* * *

 

Bucky fucking hated Steve's nightmares. The very worst instant when those blue eyes showed no comprehension cut deep into his soul. Sometimes, it was just better letting himself go back into the darkness of his alter ego.

The supine man sprawled at his feet proved that. Bringing Steve down to reality while chaining and face-fucking him had its privileges.

He gently laid out the semi-conscious man onto the spare bed and pulled the white sheet over his limp body. Antibiotic cream saturated the bruises and raised welts, lending a somewhat herbal scent to the air.

 _Happened again_ , he plugged into the phone's texting window.

A response pegged the screen a moment later. _How you handling it?_

_About as well as can be expected. I need you after this. If you'll still have me._

His hand shook while he composed the response. Descending into this tainted corner of the pool always left a certain disgust, a fear he might not come back. He frowned, glancing at the blond. Steve's eyes were shut, his breathing even. At peace, as much as one could be at peace.

Hit send, waiting for a response.

_I love you. You care about him. That'll never change._

_Maybe next time,_  he carefully shaped the words to Wanda, _we let Nat do this. I can't hurt him. Not the way he wants._

_We'll talk when you get home. Remember. I love all of you._

God, he loved that girl. His slip of red. He buried his face in his hands and sighed. Steve slept. And in the end, that was all that mattered.

 


End file.
